Ficool

Chapter 1 - The Betrayal of Two Homes

My earliest memories of family were filled with the scent of roasted maize drifting in from our backyard and the soft hum of my father's voice whenever he returned from his travels. He was an Agricultural Extension Officer, a man who believed deeply in his work. He spent most of his time on the road, moving from one village to another, teaching farmers new methods, checking on crops, and solving agricultural problems. People respected him for his dedication. At home, he was warm and loving, even if his time with us was short. My mother often complained that he gave too much of himself to his work and too little to us, but as a child, I thought that was simply how things were meant to be.

What I did not know then was that while my father was away, my mother was living a different life.

One midnight, when I was still very young, I woke up thirsty. The night was so still that the ticking of the wall clock sounded like a hammer in my ears. I tiptoed to the kitchen for water, trying not to wake anyone. But before I could reach the fridge, I heard something unusual. At first it sounded like a whimper, and I panicked, thinking someone was hurt. I froze in the dark hallway, my small hands clutching the wall. The sound grew clearer. It was not pain. It was pleasure.

I crept closer, and my heart pounded when I realized the sounds were coming from my mother's room. Confusion clouded my mind. My first thought was that my father must have returned home while I was asleep. That would explain it. But the next morning, when I tiptoed into my father's room, the bed was neatly spread, untouched. He was still away.

At breakfast, with trembling hands, I asked, "Mama, where is Daddy?"

She looked at me calmly, as if she had nothing to hide. "He has not come home yet since he traveled the other day," she said, sipping her tea. Her face showed no sign of guilt.

I nodded silently, but inside my chest, questions burned like fire. Who was in her room that night? Was it a dream? I tried to convince myself that maybe I had imagined it, but the memory of her voice was too vivid.

Weeks passed, but the memory stayed with me. I could not look at my mother without remembering that night. I watched her carefully, noticing how she would hum cheerfully when my father was away, and how she would fall silent when he returned. My father, tired but cheerful, never suspected anything. The guilt I carried grew heavier, until one day, unable to bear it anymore, I broke down in front of him.

"Daddy," I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. "I think Mama is seeing someone else. The night you traveled, I heard her with a man."

His face hardened, and for a moment I regretted my words. He did not scold me, but the silence that followed was worse. Days later, the tension in the house erupted into loud arguments. Their voices shook the walls, neighbors whispered, and the home I once knew fell apart. Eventually, they divorced. My mother moved back to her parents' house, never remarrying again.

I grew up carrying the weight of that broken home. My father gave me strength, teaching me resilience, but I never told my mother that it was I who had revealed her secret. She never knew that her own child had been the messenger of her downfall.

Years passed. I finished school, married a kind man, and together we traveled overseas to start a new life. My husband worked hard, and though we struggled at first, we built something beautiful together. Seven years went by in what felt like a blink. During that time, I thought often of my mother. She was still alone, living in her parents' house, her youth slipping away. Out of pity and forgiveness, I decided to bring her into my home.

When she arrived, I was shocked at her appearance. She looked far younger than her age. Her skin glowed, her hair was dyed and styled, and she dressed like the young women of today. Tight jeans, short skirts, colorful tops. At first I laughed, thinking she was simply trying to relive the youth she felt she had lost.

For the first few months, everything seemed normal. She cooked, laughed, and even helped me with the children. My husband treated her politely, and I was grateful to see them getting along. But then I began to notice little things that made my stomach twist.

When my husband came home from work, his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary. At dinner, they shared private jokes that I was not part of. Sometimes, I would wake in the night and find the living room light on, only to discover them sitting too close, whispering like teenagers.

I tried to brush it aside. I told myself I was imagining things. After all, this was my mother. Surely, she would not repeat the sins of the past in my own home.

But the distance between my husband and me grew. He avoided me in bed, spending long hours on his phone or locked away in his study. When I reached for him, he pulled away. My heart began to ache with suspicion.

One evening, as I folded laundry in the bedroom, I heard laughter from the kitchen. It was not just laughter, but the kind that bubbles with intimacy. I crept to the doorway and froze. My husband's hand brushed against my mother's, and neither of them pulled away. Their eyes met, and in that silent exchange, I saw the truth.

My breath caught, and my knees weakened. I retreated before they saw me, but from that moment, my world crumbled.

Days later, unable to hold back, I confronted my husband. His silence was the confirmation I dreaded. My fears were not illusions. He was cheating on me—with my own mother.

I locked myself in the bedroom, tears soaking my pillow. The memories of childhood rushed back—the moans in the night, my father's silent heartbreak, the divorce that tore our family apart. History had repeated itself, only this time it was my marriage that was ruined. The same woman who destroyed my father's home had now destroyed mine.

I stared at the ceiling that night, my body trembling. I wanted to scream, to throw them both out, to erase every trace of betrayal. But I could not move. My heart was paralyzed by pain.

The days that followed were filled with silence. I avoided both of them, locking myself in my room, pretending to sleep when they walked past. My children, innocent and oblivious, played in the living room while the house sat on the edge of collapse.

One afternoon, I sat by the window watching the rain fall. The sound of laughter drifted from the living room—my mother and my husband again. I pressed my forehead against the glass and let tears slip down my face.

I thought of my father. Did he feel this same weight when I told him the truth about Mama all those years ago? Did he lie awake wondering what he had done wrong? I understood him now in a way I never had before.

The betrayal cut deeper because it came from the two people I trusted most. My husband, who had vowed to love me forever. My mother, who should have protected me, not repeated the cycle of destruction.

And yet, as the days stretched on, I did nothing. I lived in silence, drowning in questions. Should I tell them I knew? Should I throw them both out? Should I pack my bags and leave?

One night, I stood in the doorway of the living room and watched them. They did not see me. My mother, glowing with youth, leaned close to my husband. His eyes sparkled as he listened to her. I felt invisible, erased in my own home.

I turned away, my heart pounding. My legs carried me back to my room, but my mind was not with me. It wandered to the past, to my father's face, to the child I had been when I first heard the truth.

The circle had closed. The sins of the past had returned. And now, as I sat in the quiet darkness of my room, one haunting question consumed me.

Would I become like my father, silent and broken, watching my home fall apart? Or would I gather the strength to end the curse once and for all?

I did not have the answer.

All I knew was that history had repeated itself, and the betrayal that began in my childhood had followed me into adulthood, leaving me standing at the edge of a decision that could shatter everything forever.

And in that silence, with the sound of my mother's laughter echoing through the walls, I realized my story was not ending here. It was only beginning.

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